


adam in the surf

by Anemoi



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Injury, Milly's there for a hot sec
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: It’s March again when he gets injured. The key word in that is again.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	adam in the surf

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make it less obvious that i was incredibly sad abt Adam last year and wrote most of it after That One Interview and then like.. rewrote it bc i was sad again but i dont think it quite succeeded. whoops

1.

It’s March again when he gets injured. The key word in that is _again_. 

  
  
  


2.

Starting two matches in a row was probably what caused it, not in the sense that he overreached and strained himself (although this is what the physios will say, when he’s mustered up the energy to go in and see them) but in the bad, scribbled out and superstitious way. _I’d been too lucky and now it’s come for me._

He thinks, _I'm cursed. It’s got to be._

  
  


Adam can’t get out of bed. It’s not the injury, except it is. It’s not the injury everyone can see. How he limps. He’s on the phone to Jordan to tell him this, even though the game against Southampton was tomorrow and he doesn’t expect the speed with which Jordan shows up in his driveway. 

Jordan shows up, but it’s not like he has much to say. Instead he's just a presence in the kitchen, Adam dunking the sachets of fancy tea into their cups mechanically. The sun’s very bright for April, like some sort of omen. 

“How long?” 

Adam bites back _it doesn’t matter._ “Don’t know yet.” Sugar next, spoon trailing vortices in the liquid. 

Jordan crowds up behind him, because Jordan knows what it’s like, even if he’s never been able to actually describe it. What it’s like- Adam wishes he doesn’t know, all of a sudden. Wished Jordan would take him out to the movies or something, something completely irresponsible that he couldn’t do. Jordan Brian Henderson, captain of Liverpool football club. 

“You’ll come back,” Jordan says, mumbles almost like a demand into the soft skin under Adam’s ear. If Adam tilts his head the sun shines directly on his eyes and makes him tear up, blood red. He turns. 

“Alright,” he says, but Jordan can’t quite meet his eye. It’s alright, really, because he’s only human. 

  
  
  
  
  


3.

 _You’ll come back_ is what they could say to a footballer with a serious injury for the first time in his career (they had). Or the second, or the third, or the fourth. And they’ll continue saying it, losing conviction all the way, until the footballer hangs up his boots for the last time and walks away. Adam is thirty, he’s injured again, he’s heard it too many times. 

That’s the thing about injury-

  
  
  
  
  


4.

“Todo saldra bien,” James says. 

“What?” Adam says, squinting along the line of trees. 

James just looks at him. “Have you not been keeping up with those tapes then? Me kids are going to be better than you.” 

Adam grins. “Vai se foder, Milly, Vai se fuckin’ foder.” 

“Did Bobby teach you that? Bloody hell.”  
  


Adam swings and the ball bounces off, slightly skewed from the line he’d envisioned. He sucks in a breath and shrugs. “Yeah.”

James stops him with his club, slapping it gently over Adam’s chest. Adam looks down at it, and they laugh a little bit, but James doesn’t take it away immediately. 

“I mean it, though,” James says. Adam looks at the sun glinting off the shiny steel of the club, blinks and looks away. 

“I know, Milly.” 

  
  
  
  


5.

Platitudes. It costs very little to give them. But then again he wasn’t sure if James knew anything else to say. He’s not sure anyone has the words for it, least of all him. And anyway it was the companionship that mattered, the time James carved up from his own precious supply to give to Adam, that mattered more than anything he could’ve said. It’s a sort of currency. He wished they could just- talk. And it could be easy. 

  
  
  


6.

Arthur gets tackled and before he even realised what he’s done the other parents were trying to push him down into his seat. A man in a flat cap who looks somewhat familiar, and Adam’s been to many of Arthur’s football matches, so much so he’d made friends with the other parents, but he couldn’t remember this man’s name. In any case, there’s some emotion on his face that Adam refuses to understand. He pushes at Adam’s shoulder like Adam is some kind of wild animal, like Adam will try to hurt him if he did anything more.

“Mate…” he says. Adam looks down at his hands and he’s clenching them so hard around the railings the knuckles are white. Bloodless. On the field the ref’s blown the whistle and the kids all cluster around Arthur, clasping his elbow and bumping foreheads with the serious comedy of children. Arthur takes the free kick and it sails over the top of the goalpost. He turns away, accepting hugs of condolences with his shoulders hunched.

Adam sits back down. The man- his name was George, Adam thinks- was still mumbling something about calming down and “it’s just the kids, eh?” but Adam’s not listening to him. He just stares at Arthur, running, the red welt above his rolled down socks. Tries to unclench his hands, one finger at a time. 

  
  


7.

After that it becomes worse. Hard to think _how_ it could, but nevertheless it did. He doesn’t text Jordan or call him but Jordan keeps showing up to take him to training, even though Adam couldn’t train with the team and he’s already tried to convince the medical team to switch his schedule. 

One day Adam doesn’t go outside and just watches, Jordan sitting at the wheel. His head bent, texting Adam. Calling Adam. He waits sixteen minutes but he doesn’t get out of the car before he pulls away. 

It hurts but Adam is used to it. Jordan wanted so much to matter to the team, so much to shoulder the burden of it when even the most talented players that passed through would look at it askance. He wants to climb the pedestal and then drag all the team up behind him, some herculean effort. Something proven. And what did Adam want? 

He finds his eyes stinging, suddenly. Jordan’s left. And Adam only wants one simple thing, like a kid breaking through from the academy. A different kind of proof, but nevertheless. 

  
  


8.

All of a sudden it’s the worst thing in the world that this has happened to them. Not the injuries, or the despair, or the sorrow that comes out of nowhere- just them, in the car and silent, neither of them able to just reach out and turn on the radio to put an end to that silence. 

“Jordan,” Adam says. They’re waiting at a light that seemed to go on forever. 

Jordan turns to look at him. “Yeah?” 

“I just wanted,” the words sticks in his throat like fish bones. The after taste of cough medicine. “I’m sorry, I was- I need-” 

“Help,” Jordan finishes. Adam thinks, _was that what I wanted to say?_ “You need help. I know, Adam.” 

He puts his hand over Adam’s and almost crushes it, his grip is that strong. The light’s finally turned and the car behind them beeps a little, almost reproachful. Jordan doesn’t let go. 

“Come on, Jordan,” Adam says, but he doesn’t pull away. “Come on.” 

They drive the rest of the way to Melwood not speaking, but halfway down the street Adam leans over and switches on the radio.

  
  


9.

He doesn’t actually know what Jordan meant by help. Probably all of it. Not that Jordan has offered it. Adam thinks, actually, that Jordan has no idea what sort of help he could possibly offer and therefore settled on the most common one: leaving Adam alone until Adam has had enough of suffering alone to come back and suffer in a group setting again. He thinks about currencies. Jordan pulling into his driveway and waiting for him in the mornings. How it had hurt every step of the way into the car, the unreasonableness of it. 

The next morning he pulls open the door and says, “I’ve got something to tell you.” And he doesn’t spare Jordan, anymore, none of the details, even though it feels terrible, the way you try to unburden yourself by burdening someone else. But Jordan listens, and he keeps showing up in Adam’s driveway every day after, and he listens. 

  
  


10.

They win the Champions League. He remembers the pitch after the final whistle. The river of red, the bus, the promise of a season to come. 

  
  


11.

First game of a new season: Adam doesn’t make the team for Norwich. Doesn’t even make the bench. _Todo saldra bien, vamos-_

  
  


12.

They win the Premier League. He remembers: ticker tape and fireworks. Empty stands and a hard bench. The medal. His hand, his heart. This is the end. 

  
  
  


13\. 

If that is how things end, then. If that is how things end, the words all said, the songs all sung, the heroes rewarded- 

Where does it leave him? If time passes and he’s swallowed by the tide and there’s nothing left but a record on a page, _Adam Lallana, Liverpool Player_ , where will he go? 

  
  
  
  


14.

_Todo saldra bien, vamos-_

But he’s still so afraid, when the time comes. It’s not the future he’s afraid of, it’s this, the moment everything happens. The ever changing present. He’s ready, supposedly. Ready for a long time. When Jurgen gestures at him on the bench and he’s struggling, unzipping the jacket. James looks at him, that hint of a smile curled in the corner of his mouth. Slaps him on the back.

Adam tries not to think at all, the hours and silence and the possibility of _breaking_ , the lights and people and his name and the uneven grass below his boots. Just deep breaths. 

Before he’s even realised it he’s already running, graceless at first, then slipping into that old familiar rhythm, one hand raised in the air to call for the ball.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus! this fic comes with a hot depression playlist  
> Into the Surf- Foals, Graceless- The National, Red Eyes- The War on Drugs, Australia- The Shins, Mountain at My Gates- Foals, Fake Empire - the National


End file.
